A 

Little  of 
This 

and 

That 


A  Little  of 

This 
and  That 


By 

Ben  W.  Edelman 
Los  Anpeles,  Cal. 


9ej 

in 


TO  MY 
L  YEL  A 


498444 


Just  You 

There's  a  smile  upon  your  Angel  face, 

And  a  twinkle  in  your  eye; 
And  the  golden  sunbeams  on  your  hair 

Are  more  Heavenly  than  the  sky. 
There's  merriment  in  your  laughter, 

There's  love  within  your  heart,  so  true; 
You  are  the  sunshine  of  my  life 

Because  you  are  you — just  you. 

The  rose  it  blooms  then  fades  away, 

And  its  leaves  fall  one  by  one; 
And  all  that's  left  upon  the  stem 

Are  the  many  thorns  thereon. 
But  you  are  a  rose  more  beautiful 

Than  the  fairest  that  ever  grew; 
And  your  smiles  will  live  forever 

Because  you  are  you — just  you. 


A  Tragedy 


T'was  midnight. 

The  clock  in  the  church  tower 

Was  striking  the  hour. 

The  village  was  asleep, 

Clothed  in  a  mantle  of  snow. 

At  the  foot  of  the  winding  pathway 

That  leads  to  the  creek 

The  old  mill  looms  up  in  the  darkness; 

While  across  and  beyond, 

Almost  hidden  in  the  tall  trees, 

Stands  an  old  hut. 

A  gentle  breeze  springs  up, 

Rustling  the  branches  for  a  moment, 

And  dies  away. 

Suddenly  a  light  flashes  out  from  a  door 

Of  one  of  the  cabins  in  the  village. 

For  an  instant  it  wavers, 

Then  shrinks  into  a  narrow  streak 

And  disappears. 

Just  then  a  shadow  seems  to  move. 

Cautiously  it  creeps  along  down  the  slope. 

It  stops,     . 

And  for  a  moment  hides  itself 

In  the  shrubbery  that  lines  the  pathway. 

All  is  silent. 

It  moves  again  and  reaches  the  old  hut. 

Through  a  break  in  the  clouds 

The  shadow  reveals  itself 

In  the  form  of  a  man. 

He  peers  through  a  broken  window. 

A  fiendish  smile  crosses  his  face. 

He  makes  no  sound  as  he  raises  the  window 

And  slowly  creeping  in, 

He  gazes  at  his  victim 

Lying  asleep  before  him. 

Hastily  drawing  his  murderous  weapon, 

He  plunges  it  deep  into  the  heart 

Of  the  sleeper. 

A  piercing  shriek  rents  the  air, 

Followed  by  another,  and  another. 

A  groan,  a  moan — 

AND  THE  OLD  HOG  IS  DEAD. 


Friendship 

I'd  like  to  be  the  kind  of  friend 
That  you  would  have  me  be; 

I'd  like  to  be  the  kind  of  friend 
That  you  would  like  to  see. 

I'd  like  to  mean  as  much  to  you 
As  the  sun  does  to  the  day, 

And  strew  the  flowers  along  your  path 
To  gladden  you  on  your  way. 

I'd  like  to  say  those  nice  things 
And  do  something  big  for  you, 

To  keep  the  gray  from  out  your  hair- 
Your  eyes  so  bright  and  blue. 

I'd  like  to  give  you  all  the  joys 

Before  you  pass  away, 
For  there's  fragrance  in  your  memory 

Like  a  beautiful  summer  day. 

I'd  like  you  to  be  happy, 
And  when  your  work  is  done 

That  your  heart  be  filled  with  music, 
And  God  had  written  the  song. 

In  fact,  if  I  but  one  wish  had, 
This  wish,  then,  I  would  make: 

I'd  like  to  be  your  best  of  friends, 
That  friendship  never  break. 


Disillusioned 

T'was  a  Sunday  evening — 

The  end  of  a  hot,  sultry  day. 

They  were  seated  beneath  the  trees 

In  the  village  park. 

A  gentle  breeze  stirred  the  leaves. 

Across  the  street 

Stood  the  little  brick  church. 

Its  doors  and  windows  were  open 

To  cool  the  temperature  within. 

The  choir  had  finished  singing 

The  closing  hymn, 

And  the  notes  of  the  organ 

Were  slowly  dying  away. 
"Wasn't  it  Heavenly?"  she  murmured. 

Just  then  a  cricket  chirped  in  the  grass. 
"Yes,"  he  said, 

And  they  say  they  do  it 

With  their  hind  legs. 


The  Painting 


There's  a  painting  in  a  frame  of  gold 

I  hold  in  memory  dear; 
Oftimes  I  gaze  upon  it, 

Oftimes  I  shed  a  tear. 
Its  colors  retain  their  beauty 

Thru  all  the  years  of  time — 
The  painting  is  a  picture, 

Of  mother  dear  o'  mine. 


My  Sweetheart 

Have  you  seen  her?     She,  my  sweetheart, 
Handsomest  of  all  the  women. 
Eyes  that  sparkle  like  the  sunrise. 
Blue  eyes  that  twinkle 
Like  twin  stars  in  heaven — 
On  the  gleaming  of  the  water, 
Through  the  splendor  of  the  moonlight. 

Hair  so  soft,  with  golden  tresses, 
Golden,  as  the  shadows 
From  the  sunrise  to  the  sunset — 
Shadows  of  the  golden  poppy. 

Lips  of  crimson  and  of  laughter, 
As  the  laughter  of  the  brooklet 
Through  the  forests  and  the  rivers — 
Young  and  beautiful,  My  Sweetheart. 

Comes  She,  from  a  land  far  distant, 
From  a  land  of  legends  and  traditions, 
Where  the  Western  sky 
Dips  beneath  the  rolling  waters — 
Waters  of  the  Great  Pacific. 

O'er  the  mountains,  green  in  summer, 
O'er  the  mountains,  white  in  winter. 
Mountain  groves,  with  singing  pine  trees 
And  the  odor  of  the  forests. 

O'er  the  mountains  into  valleys — 
Valleys,  covered  with  green  meadows, 
With  silver  streams,  and  water  courses. 
You  can  trace  them 
By  the  rushing  of  the  Springtime. 

Meadows  rich  with  wheat  and  cornfield, 
Rich  with  Orange,  Grape  in  cluster; 
With  the  fragrance  of  the  wildflower, 
And  the  poppy  and  the  prarie  lily, 
Meadows  sloping  toward  the  sea. 


My  Sweetheart 

(Continued) 

In  the  twilight  of  an  evening 
When  the  land  was  in  the  autumn, 
When  the  trees  were  painted  scarlet, 
And  the  leaves  were  stained  with  yellow, 
Came  she  forth — my  lovely  Sweetheart. 
And  they  named,  and  called  her  Lyela, 
Called  her  Lyela,  Star  of  Evening. 

Out  of  childhood  into  maiden 
Grew  my  lovely  Star  of  Evening — 
Grew  up  like  the  pure  white  lily — 
Like  a  fair  and  tender  lily, 
With  the  beauty  of  the  Moonlight, 
With  the  beauty  of  the  Starlight,— 
Grew  the  lovliest  of  all  lilies. 

All  our  songs  we  sang  together, — 
Songs  of  dreams,  and  songs  of  laughter; 
Songs  of  love,  and  songs  of  longing, 
And  our  hearts  were  filled  with  gladness, — 
Filled  our  hearts  with  joy  and  cheer. 

And  the  years  have  flown  onward, — 
Through  the  roses  in  the  summer — 
Through  the  rainclouds  in  the  winter. 
Years  of  joy,  years  of  pleasure, 
Years  of  happiness,  and  of  splendor. 

Hand  in  hand  we'll  walk  together 
Through  life's  journey, 
To  the  portals  of  the  sunset — 
To  the  Kingdom  of  the  blessed — 
To  the  Home  of  God,  in  Heaven. 


New  York,  1920. 


The  East  and  the  West 

Oh  the  desolate  land  of  the  Empire  State! 

Frozen  State. 

The  land  of  ice  and  snow, 

With  its  lightning  and  thunder, 

And  storms  without  number, 

And  the  sleet, 

And  the  cold  winds  that  blow. 

This  is  the  land  of  the  East — 

Frozen  East. 

The  land  with  its  shivering  poor, 

Whose  hearts  are  like  lead, 

And  whose  hopes 

Have  all  fled, 

And  grim  deaths  talks  in  thru  their  door. 

Oh  for  the  land  of  the  Golden  State- 
Beautiful  State. 

The  land  of  the  orange  and  wine, 
With  its  gardens,  and  flowers, 
And  vine-covered  bowers — 
The  glorious  land  of  sunshine. 
This  is  the  land  of  the  West- 
Beautiful  West— 
The  land  of  the  olive  and  lime, 
Where  the  lilacs  and  rose, 
And  the  wild  poppy  grows, — 
The  land  of  Summer-time. 


Little  Nell 

I  met  her  on  the  street  one  day — 

She  was  so  cold  and  wet; 
And  as  she  gazed  into  my  eyes, 

Seemed  glad  that  we  had  met. 

I  put  her  gently  in  my  car, 
And  took  her  home  with  me; 

She  cuddled  close  within  my  arms, 
And  was  happy  as  could  be. 

Her  hair  was  of  a  golden  brown, 

Her  teeth  so  pearly  white; 
Her  eyes  they  sparkled  like  the  stars, 

And  she  was  of  medium  height. 

She'd  always  go  along  with  me 

When  I  went  out  to  ride; 
A  happy  smile  was  on  her  face 

As  she  sat  by  -my  side. 

You  wonder  who  my  friend  may  be? 

Your  mind  I  will  dispel; 
She's  only  a  PUP  of  the  mongrel  breed, 

And  I  christened  her,  LITTLE  NELL. 


Lyela 

My  California  Rose 

In  my  reverie  of  memories 

There's  a  face  that  comes  to  me. 
With  ruby  lips  and  golden  hair, 

And  a  voice  of  melody. 
There's  a  little  vine-clad  cottage, 

Where  the  blue  Pacific  flows, 
With  a  garden  of  sweet  scented  flowers 

Where  bloomed  my  California  Rose. 

Her  eyes  were  filled  with  laughter, 

Her  heart  was  blithe  and  gay, 
As  she  romped  in  this  garden  of  Eden 

All  through  the  live  long  day. 
There  were  jasamines  and  bluebells  in  blossom 

Along  the  hedge  where  the  wild  poppy  grows — 
She's  my  sweetheart,  the  fairest  of  flowers, 

And  I  call  her  my  California  Rose. 

You  may  sing  of  the  red  rose  of  passion, 
Of  the  white  rose  that  breathes  words  of  love; 

But  My  Rose  in  this  garden  of  flowers 
Is  an  Angel  from  Heaven  above. 


Beatae  Memoriae 

I  worshiped  him, 

I  idolized  him. 

To  me,  He  was 

A  man  above  all  men. 

None  knew  him 

But  to  love  him, 

None  knew  him 

But  to  do  him  honor. 

He  was  a  Holy  man — 

Pure  in  heart, 

Pure  in  mind, 

Sincere  in  his  faith, 

Loyal  to  its  precepts. 

He  knew 

But  the  one  righteous  path. 

He  was  a  Godlike  man. 

I  worshiped  him — 

I  idolized  him — 

MY  FATHER. 


Lonesome 

The  Moon  it  hides  its  rays  of  splendor, 

And  casts  its  shadows  here  for  me; 
The  world  seems  dreary,  I  shed  a  tear, 

And  weep  in  silence — for  love  of  thee. 

The  wild  thrush  twitters  in  the  hedge, 

The  nightingale  is  singing,  too, 
The  gentle  breeze — they  all  seem  to  whisper  your  name — 

I  guess  I'm  lonesome,  sweetheart  dear,  for  you. 

The  orange  blossoms  are  in  bloom. 

But  droop  and  wither  for  want  of  care; 

The  roses  have  lost  their  sweet  perfume, 
And  somehow  there's  a  sadness  in  the  air. 

The  mocking-bird  is  silent  in  his  song. 

The  sky  it  lacks  its  azure  of  blue; 
There's  a  longing  deep  within  my  heart — 

I  know  I'm  lonesome,  sweetheart  dear,  for  you. 


A  Dream 


I  dreamt  a  dream. 

I  lay  as  one  dead. 

Then,  in  a  vision 

I  beheld  my  soul 

Wing  its  flight  upwards 

On  a  cloud  of  rainbow  tinting 

Through  Starland. 

I  gazed  about. 
A  strange,  irresponsible  happiness 

Possessed  me 

Like  an  overpowering  essence. 

The  splendor  of   the  beautiful   sunshine, 

And  the  ecstacy  of  the  keen  atmosphere, 

Was  enchanting. 

A  phantasy  of  colors  dazzled  me. 

I  saw  phantom  figures 

With  spread  wings 

Flying  without  effort 

Or  conscious  movement  of  any  sort  — 

Simply  lifted  by  an  unknown  wave. 

"What  place  is  this?" 

I  asked  of  them, 

And  they  answered 

THIS  IS  THE  KINGDOM  OF  HEAVEN. 


A  Dream 

(Continued) 

Suddenly  there  were  heard  sounds 
As  of  the  clatter  of  hoofs  of  horses 

On  cobbled  streets; 
The  rushing  and  shouting  of  voices, 

And  the  tramp  of  many  feet. 

"From  whence  come  these  sounds?"  I  asked. 

And  they  answered, 

"Come,  look. 

See  you  that  spot 

Where  all  the  Spirits  of  the  world  below 

Are  gathered? 

THAT  SPOT  IS  HELL." 

"Why,"  I  asked, 

Do  these  Spirits 

That  look  so  wise,  so  brave,  so  daring 

Cause  this  tumult?" 

And  they  said, 

"Because 

PROHIBITION 

Goes  into  effect  at  once, 

And  they  seek  the  juice 

That  Cheers 

And  makes  Merry." 

"Enough,"  I  cried, 

And  thus  awakened 

I  rushed  out  into  the  open. 

"Where  goest  thou?" 

Someone  asked. 
"I  seek  the  juice,"  I  shouted; 
"I  AM  GOING  TO  HELL." 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


<^130NV-SO^      %83AIN/H 


y0A8vaan 


